


A Better Home Awaiting

by MorningBlueRose



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: 19th century-20th century racial and gender attitudes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, clueless parenting, raising Anna Dewitt trial by fire style, recovering alcoholic!Booker, so much snark you guys like whoa, two 19th century men and a baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorningBlueRose/pseuds/MorningBlueRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert can say, without even the slightest hint of exaggeration, that he is a scientific genius. He has earned several degrees: Two Masters in both Physics and Mathematics, a Minor in Biophysics and a PhD in Quantum Mechanics. By the age of 23 he has written a book on theoretical physics so groundbreaking and controversial that he was almost immediately excommunicated by the Catholic Church and shunned by most of the scientific community. Robert can safely say without an ounce of humility that he has surpassed in knowledge and application the laws of thermodynamics than (barring one sole person) anyone who has ever existed on Earth.</p><p>But after staring at the young babe in his arms, Miss Anna Dewitt; on the corner of 52nd and 3rd street, only a block away from his destination does the guilt finally begin to settle in; and Robert slowly closes his eyes in exasperation because he has never felt this stupid in his entire miserable life.</p><p>And so the world's smartest man and the world's most broken one raise a small girl together and maybe even fall in love. (Oh who am I kidding they totally do.) UPDATED WEDNESDAYS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I gotta get out of the habit of writing rarefic.
> 
> Man I can see this happening in my minds eye and hopefully my work ethic has improved enough that I will finish the monster that this will most likely become.
> 
> Spoilers are imminent, but if you're a part of this fandom you probably already know all the secrets and you won't be spoiled, but fair warning: SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS BRO!!!
> 
> Booker is 19, Anna is about 1 1/2, Robert is 23 because I honestly don't know what his canon age is but I imagine he's older than Booker around the time Anna is born. If I'm wrong PM me cause that would help me out for serious.
> 
> OKAY HERE GOES

The trouble started, (with what Robert felt inwardly always did) with a young woman.

Well, not particularly the young woman (there was nothing extraordinary about her age nor her gender) but rather what she was carrying in her arms. A young babe, swathed in a pink blanket, was clutching at her chest, eyes widened immensely. A boy, Robert guessed from the color of his pacifier, a deep rose colored affair. The baby was clearly uncomfortable in its mothers arms; and Robert watched as its face became more and more agitated with the sound of the traffic and the volume of the bustle increasing around him, and soon the face of the babe became wrinkled, puckered and Robert braced himself for the ear-piercing shriek of infancy-

And then the mother jostled the baby, cooed for its attention, and then smiled and whispered something quiet and profound. The baby looked up at it's mother.

The baby boy gave a toothless grin and the pacifier fell from its mouth, forgotten. Soon after, the woman walked off and they were lost in the ensuing crowd.

Something strange came over Robert then, as he watched this intimate exchange; something strange and unfamiliar that had never occurred to him before. It was a heavy kind of warm weight that with a suddenness drifted away; akin to a wool blanket wrapped snugly around the body only to (without warning) be yanked away. On further introspection, it occurred to Robert that this unknown emotion had been a distant acquaintance, one he'd known objectively but never allowed in the private residence of his mind's home.

This particular emotion that Robert had discovered was called regret, and dear Lord; it was not even _half_ as troublesome as Robert imagined it to be.

He stood, conflicted. What could he do? On the other hand, an immense opportunity had arisen: a chance to spend the rest of his natural lifetime with unlimited resources of income and unprecedented scientific equipment to further his studies, along with someone who was absolutely (and Robert was a man of science and very rarely encountered absolutes) his intellectual equal and in fact perhaps even surpassed him in the study of physics. This was not the opportunity of a lifetime; this had surpassed several lifetimes in several worlds. His new life was waiting, Rosalind was waiting, hell; the advancement of the field of theoretical _physics_ was waiting.

On the other hand, well. He looked down in his arms.

The baby's name, he was told, was Anna. If Robert was perfectly honest, there was nothing spectacular about this baby. She fussed and wriggled around stubbornly in his arms, as if she could not for a moment stand to be swaddled. She frowned and gurgled and spat up an increasingly troubling amount of spittle and there were...smells. Not of wet or mess, but of baby: of talcum powder and sour milk and some other primitive scent of infant Robert could not place. She babbled nonsense constantly and cooed and stared at Robert unimpressed, as if she was only humoring him: _"Yes strange man, this traveling is all very well and good but I am quite tired and wish to retire to my crib so if you would cease this incessant binding immediately-"_

Oh dear lord Robert was becoming insane. Wonderful. One of the greatest minds of his generation (he knew this objectively) and here he was on the corner of 52nd and 3rd imagining an infant's conversation. But her face seemed so expressive! Robert had blue eyes himself, but Anna's seemed to be the brightest, most blinding shade of sky blue he had ever witnessed. It was a shame it would eventually fade as the child grew older.

The child would grow older. With Comstock or with Mr. Dewitt? His mind was reeling. Was the young babe better off with a backwards thinking selfish racist self-appointed Prophet or with a troubled young man not even out of his teens and already addicted to bloodshed, booze and blackjack? Should he risk what was best for him or should he risk what was best for the child? She was so small in his arms; it seemed a shame to send her to her unknowing doom. 

“Well, child?” He pretended to ask her, ignoring the looks of incredulity from passersby at the sight of a grown man conversing with an infant, “Would you rather have a distant and successful tyrant as a father or a very loving endearing drunk? What shall it be, dear?”

The babe, Anna, looked at him with suspicious eyes and gurgled something that sounded rather biting. If she could speak, Robert imagined she would say something like, _“Gracious, you make both sound so appealing; how can a girl choose between the two? Honestly.”_

“Very true,” He murmured. “But how does that saying go, darling?” He stared off into the distance, back the way he had came. “The devil you know?”


	2. In Which There is a Begrudging Accord Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY I UPDATED SOMETHING
> 
> MUST BE CHRISTMAS I GUESS

For some unknown and no doubt inconceivable reason, the trip back to Mr. Dewitt’s residence is even longer than the trip from it. As Robert makes the journey back, he begins to notice happenstances that he hadn't before: he sees children nearly everywhere. There are some shooting marbles near an apartment stoop, some young girls are skipping rope, and there are three boys no older than twelve behind a grocers smoking cigarettes and looking absurdly proud of themselves despite the constant coughing for breath that comes in intervals of mere seconds. And everywhere, everywhere he sees disease: there is animal waste on every corner, refuge piled on the streets, and Robert dares not look on the road where the horses pass by on cobblestones or he might add his own ingredients to this carnival of bacteria. He quickens his pace, unconsciously holding Anna closer to himself. Was this city always such a cesspool of unsanitary living? 

He heard a low grumbling of complaint from his arms and looked down to see Anna looking irritated. She frowns and begins cooing some sort of accelerated gibberish, seeming to say, _“I do apologize at interrupting your entirely unnecessary fit of paranoia, but if you do not cease with your infernal coddling I will gnaw your sodding hands off, are we clear?”_ Indeed, she has already began chewing on his lapel with toothless gums, giving as menacing a look as an infant could manage.

“I've changed my mind,” sighs Robert in defeat, pulling Anna's mouth away from his suit while she squirms in complaint, “You will most likely get along with your father famously. You can bond over the fact that you both exasperate me _entirely._ ”

Anna coos in agreement, and Robert is most definitely _not_ charmed by the sound.

When he reaches Mr. Dewitt’s apartment, he can feel eyes upon him. Most likely they recognize the child, and are aware Robert has no claim to her. Still, they make room for him to pass. The only thing you can count on in a slum, Robert thinks to himself bitterly, is that they are more than willing to feign obfuscation. How many times had they witnessed Dewitt coming home in a stupor or heard the girl crying without coming to aid? Even now, he can see someone hurrying from the hallway of Dewitt's apartment. It seems Dewitt left his door open; having left somewhere in a hurry. Odd.

As he enters, he can't help but sigh in resignation. He'd forgotten about the mess. The apartment is most definitely and most assuredly a _dump_ , in every sense of the word. It's the only word Robert can use to describe it; everything just seems to be _dumped_ in various places around the room, and it is just a small room, to be sure. There is a desk in the back center of the apartment and it is covered in cigarette ash and empty bottles of whiskey or rum or whatever substance of the week Mr. Dewitt finds himself. There is a cot to the other side of the room, a small table to the right pressed against the wall, and the door to Anna's room is wide open, revealing just a tiny crib and some dilapidated shelves on the wall. The entire apartment is about half the size of Rosalind's parlor room and about twice as cluttered. Robert sucks his teeth in consternation.

This simply will not do.

“Well bonny Annabelle, what shall we do, my dear?” Walking over to the crib, he places her inside gently She seems delighted to recognize her surroundings, and gives a toothless grin, waving her chubby arms in glee. She doesn't seem to notice that her blanket is rotting, or that her mattress is dusty. Robert's opinion of Dewitt, already miserably low, sinks even further as well as his mood.

His fingers itch with the anxiety of the helpless. At first he wanders around the apartment and quietly measures the surroundings. He knocks over an empty beer bottle absentmindedly with his hip and then it's only a matter of time before his cleansing catalog begins.

In one hour Robert manages to discard of 13 empty bottles of beer, 2 empty bottles of scotch, 1 half-full bottle of whiskey (that he hides) 7 boxes of cigarettes (2 full; also hidden) a bottle of red, several pages of torn dates from a half-full calender, 2 empty lighters, two dozen cigarette butts and all the accompanying ash (a filthy habit, to be sure), 4 hot dog wrappers from 2 separate vendors, a hand pistol and a case of .45 bullets (which Robert quickly shoves in a drawer of the desk), 3 buttons: one square, and two round, white and aubergine, several fliers of events long expired, 5 poker chips and 2 incomplete deck of cards, an empty bottle of what seemed to be laudanum, some new typed letters of threat by a debt collector, 6 cents in change and every miserable pile of dust in the entire apartment.

He is almost done wiping off the desk when before he has time to react there is hand clenched around his neck and his back is pressed against the wall, and he finds himself both gasping for air and staring into the face of a very large, very angry Booker Dewitt. The first thing he notices is the stench of alcohol on his breath. The second thing he notices are the beads of sweat accumulated on his brow. Had Dewitt been running around the city searching for his daughter this entire time?

“Where,” grits Dewitt emphatically, hand clenched firmly around Robert's neck, “The _hell is my daughter?_ ”

If Robert could breathe, no doubt he would criticize Dewitt for crushing the windpipe of a man who holds information that he finds valuable but as he is already asphyxiating; he can do nothing but give Dewitt what he hopes is an extremely dirty look and glare intensively at the hand around his throat.

Dewitt seems to notice this lapse in judgment; for with a snarl he removes his hand, shoving Robert back against the wall as he struggles to gasp for breath. “Pal, the way I see it you got about 5 seconds before my fingers become reacquainted with your throat. _Where is she_?” 

'In-” He pauses to cough, “She's in her crib.”

Booker stares, skepticism written all over his face.

“Oh for heavens sake,” says Robert, irritated beyond belief. “Go see for yourself.”

With one last hard look, he goes. In a moment, Robert follows.

If he thought Anna was an expressive child before, he was mistaken. At the sight of her father, her grin widens even more; revealing 3 teeth growing in the side of her mouth. She shrieks in glee, raising her hands and bouncing: _“Up, up”_ she seems to say, and the very hands that were crushing Robert's throat not a minute ago are gently holding her tightly to himself. Where Anna was fighting to be free on the walk home in Robert's arms, here she is cooing and grabbing the suspenders of her father. Dewitt does not make a sound, and his face is not visible but the moment seems private all the same.

Still. There are matters at hand to be discussed.

“Mr. Dewitt?”

“The deal's off, you hear?” The private detective's back is turned to him but Robert can see the man's fingers have tensed around his daughter, as if he expects her to be snatched away at any moment. “I made a mistake, the deal's off. Tell Comstock-”

“I can't. I can't tell him anything.”

“What? Why not? Why did you even bring her back, just to-”

“I can't,” Robert repeats calmly. “Because he doesn't know I brought her back. That I'm giving her back to you. He can't know I gave her back.”

“I'm not followin'; you telling me he doesn't know you're here?” Dewitt places Anna gently into her crib, and the girl smacks her lips in dismay. The girl had been chewing an inordinate amount of times. Poor thing was teething no doubt. She looked unhappy. Robert had read once that children were sponges; absorbing the emotions of the world around them. He hopes for the girl's sake that wasn't true.

“Oh, no doubt he's figured it out on his own. Fortunately enough, he doesn't know the whereabouts of your location.” Rosalind's stern yet affable disposition comes to mind. “And the one individual who might have an idea won't give me away.”

“Why?”

“My incorrigible boyish charms, no doubt-”

“No, I mean why help me?” Dewitt asks quietly, his gaze like daggers into Robert's eyes. He feels exposed in a manner most unaccustomed by him, and he cannot stop himself from fidgeting. “You know I ain't got money. I don't know too many favors I can lend a man like you-”

“Less about what you can give me, Mr. Dewitt,” says Robert softly, eying the babe in her crib. “And more what you can do for your family.”

“Nothing's free.” Dewitt bites out. “Specially from your types.”

Robert raises a single brow. “Forgive me my impertinence, but I don't find you in the position to refuse any help offered to you by _anyone_ , Mr. Dewitt.”

The aforementioned man clenches his fists, but Robert forces himself not to flinch. Booker is a ruffian and a thug, but even he can be persuaded to see reason. 

“Besides,” He continues, gesturing to the now almost immaculate condition of the apartment, “I could prove of some use to you yet, if you are agreeable.”

Dewitt pointedly looks Robert up and down, somewhat disapprovingly. Robert can feel his cheeks flush pink, and he wills himself not to look away. "If I got need for a guy who looks like he walked out of an Arrow catalog, I got your number, pal."

Robert bristles, and is about to answer back. Robert is about to answer something back that is most likely sarcastic and biting and inherently witty no doubt; but he is suddenly and quite rudely interrupted by the sound of what at first he mistakes to be a swarm of angry bees all at once hitting the walls of the apartment. It shatters dust from the wall, (oh for heavens sake, he just swept!) and puncture marks proceed to demolish and spread around the residence. He can hear a woman screaming in the apartment next door and without warning his head is abruptly brought down unto the unforgiving hardwood. It takes an admittedly humiliating amount of time for him to realize what the sound is.

Bullets.

His heart feels stiff and skips a beat. _Anna-_

Dewitt seems to be two steps ahead of him, as he already has the baby in hand, his face taut. “Hold her.” he demands, giving Anna to Robert. Her face is an ugly red, bawling in confusion. The sound of bullets overhead echo across the room, and Dewitt pushes them both down with one large hand, and with the other-

Dewitt seems to freeze. “My gun-”

“It's in the desk!” The shelf in Anna's room crumbles to the ground, and the child begins bawling at an even louder rate. Dewitt makes to stand, and Robert's hand shoots out.

“Are you insane? You'll be shot!”

“This ain't my first shootout. Just stay down, and keep her safe.” With that Dewitt rises and makes it to the desk in seconds without harm. Robert lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. He looks down at the child, tomato-faced and frightened, barely responding to the stroking of her hair. Inwardly, he sympathizes. Some part of him is an awe of Dewitt and his calm. But one moment, did the man say-

“First shootout? Are you serious- why the bloody hell would anyone have cause to shoot-”

A bullet whizzes by, and Dewitt ducks his head, loading his pistol with steady fingers. “Remember that debt your gaffer said he'd pay?”

“Vaguely-”

“Yeah?” He fires twice, and ducks again at the oncoming barrage. “Guess it's a little more fresh in their memory.”

His face blanches. “All this- for what? Money? Dewitt, you mean to tell me they've done this before?”

“More or less.” An incoming shot breaks the only light bulb in the apartment, and the room is thrown pitch black. Moonlight streams down from the window, but even still Robert can only see shadows on Dewitt's face. “They're usually a lot less obvious about wantin' me dead. Never shot at me before; that's new.”

“All this for a debt? For Gods' sakes man, haven't you heard of saving? Can't you work for them; arrange some sort of payment plan-”

Dewitt reloads and fires thrice from behind the desk “Not for $2000*, I can't.”

Robert can't help it. His body, of it's own accord, falls to the floor from where he is huddled in shock. “ _I beg your pardon?_ ”

“I gambled-”

“What on _Earth_ could you have possibly gambled; the _Hope diamond_?”

“Look-” and it's clear Dewitt is nearing the end of his patience, but Robert can't bring himself to care. He wasn't shot at before he met this Dewitt character for damn sure, and he certainly isn't going to imitate gratitude. 

“-It ain't cause for your concern. You brought her back, and I'm grateful, but that don't mean you can just walk into my home and-” His eyes narrow, the incoming assault forgotten. “Hold on, how did you even get in here-”

“The door was open!”

“Did you-” Dewitt looks disbelievingly around the room. “Did you _clean my house?_ ”

“Well,” sulks Robert, eying the torn apartment still being hailed in gunfire with displeasure, “I _had_ cleaned it-”

He's interrupted, yet again, by a fresh hail of bullets and a rather irritating voice. “We got him, boys!”

What they “got”, in reality, is the remains of what had used to be a table; it's fallen to a slump in pieces on the floor. The no doubt educated gentlemen outside seem to have confused it with the body of Mr. Dewitt himself. 

Dewitt is still very much alive, and his eyes glued to his daughter. Anna has stopped crying, but she looks furious, glaring at nothing in particular, Her normally bright blue eyes are cold steel and her cheeks are a vivid persimmon. From the remains of the desk, Dewitt hands him the canvas bag Robert had previously been using to store the garbage. “Here, empty this out and pack a bag.”

Honestly. Robert has had enough with this insane man's demands. “Oh yes, let me just stash the crib and all of your daughter's earthly possessions into this positively _delightful_ tote you've provided; oh lovely, there's even a large prick in the bag for air circulation! Hop in Dewitt, let's make it _two_ -”

The look Dewitt gives him could melt ice, but Robert has been stared down by Rosalind far too many times to be affected by so paltry a glare. “See here, Lutece-”

“No, _you_ see here-”

“No, _you_. Outside this apartment are maybe twenty men with, if I'm correct and well; given the amount of times I've been fuckin' shot at in my lifetime, there's no doubt I am: two dozen carbine rifles and what seems to be an endless supply of ammunition, and they mean to take my life. Meanwhile, I gotta screaming, probably starving 1 year old girl who already knows the sound of gunfire, a loud mouth, smart ass Paddy who works for some geriatric geezer who thinks himself the second coming of _Jesus fucking Christ himself_ , and a torn down gunshot ridden office building _I ain't even finished paying off yet._ ”

“Today I been shot at, yelled at, taken advantage of, and had my goddamn daughter taken away and brought back within what had to be the worst two hours of my life, bar none. Now any minute, those fellas are gonna come runnin' in here to fetch a body that ain't dead yet. I'm outta time, outta patience, and more importantly, outta bullets. So believe me when I tell you that your life and my daughter's life are hinged on the importance of you pulling your head out of your proverbial ass and _pack the motherfucking bag._ _Now_.”

Robert can hear heavy footsteps coming from down the hall. “It's you they're after; why should I endanger some poor little girl's life because her father can't be arsed to count to 21 properly-”

“Oh really? I'm supposed to leave my baby girl with some guy who goes around askin' fellas for their infants like some red-headed Pied Piper?” Dewitt grimaces. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Robert, perfect specimen of impudence that he is, stops packing the child's necessities into the duffel and raises a single brow. “And I suppose the man who sells his daughter to a stranger for a $2000 gambling debt is so much better a fit at parenting?”

He can hear the voices down the hall. Dewitt seems to as well, for his face grows tenser. “I fucked up, okay?” whispers Dewitt, a soft susurration with a strong sincerity Robert did not think the man capable of, “I fucked up and I'm a shitty father and you got no cause to listen to me but right now, you can come with me or you can deal with them; but I ain't leaving without Anna. Not again.” He reaches his hand out to Robert. “Just trust me, okay? I can take care of you both, but you gotta trust me, alright?”

Robert looks down at young baby Anna, who is still sulking. She eyes Dewitt, and then turns to stare at Robert. She babbles something very quietly, as if knowing the severity of the situation. The footsteps seem to be right in front of the door, and they seem to be attempting to take it down with haste. _“Go on,”_ Anna seems to say to Robert with her eyes, _“It can't very well get any worse, can it?”_

With a heavy sign and the sure knowledge that it very well could, Robert, (with much chagrin) takes Dewitt's hand and allows him to pull them closer.

The door is knocked down that very second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *$2000 USD in 1893 roughly equates to $51,081.69 in present times. Turns out Booker is shit at card games but we knew that already, huh? :/
> 
> I'm gonna try and update every Wednesday from now on.
> 
> QUOTE ME 
> 
> (no please don't)


End file.
